


Whispers

by StAnni



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Porn with Feelings, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 09:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18408206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: And because it is Eliot, and because it is him, he doesn’t need to explain himself, or wake up in a shameful pit.  Because it is Eliot, he breathes through the pain, through the dream, to the mundane morning on the other side.





	Whispers

Eliot’s fingers are in Margo’s hair and the pale peaks break through the surface of brown silky curls. Quentin watches Margo’s eyes close and neck arch back – into Eliot’s shoulder. When Eliot slides, presses, thrusts inside of her, along the burning line of his own cock, he gasps and Margo moans and the world is reduced to the three of them, a narrowing shuddering grip – as he moves for friction against Eliot’s cock inside that hot tightness. Afterwards Eliot will tell him, when Margo is asleep, that he has never done that before – not with Margo, not with anyone. And Quentin will feel. He’ll feel something, some small spark. And it will be like a whisper – there and gone. 

Years later, in the cottage they made their own in Fillory, Eliot is kneeling over him, naked and hair slicked back from the morning rain. Quentin has a hand on his cock as he watches Eliot fuck into his own fist. It’s a kink he’s developed – watching Eliot jerk off. Sometimes, special times, he prefers it over an actual fuck.   
Eliot’s eyes are locked on his as he thrusts his hips, thorough, hard.   
Quentin is less elegant – his hand moving fast and then slow, his breath fast, gasps.   
Eliot comes first, stuttering forward, bracing himself on a strong elbow next to Quentin shoulder as he spills, warm and sick on Quentin’s stomach. Quentin follows at Eliot’s breath on his neck, the proximity of his over-heated body. That night, much later, Eliot will smile and laugh it off when Quentin tells him that Eliot tastes like peaches.

Almost exactly two years into the day that will never end, Quentin is livid – tearing through the bedroom – yanking all of his belongings into a sack as Eliot watches, darkly, from the doorway.   
“Don’t forget your shoes.” Eliot says, and there is steel there, that cold resolve that can withstand anything hurled at it.   
He doesn’t forget his shoes and he shoves past Eliot to get out of the door.   
And then days later Quentin will come back, tired and dirty to find Eliot, shaken, drawing him in for a warm, tight embrace. “I’m sorry.” Quentin will say but the words will make it out, just barely, just air and Eliot will kiss him, deep, deep as regret and breathe him in. “Just…always come back, alright?”

Too many nights ago to remember Quentin is on his knees and Margot guides his chin up with her fingers. They are both there, gazing down at him – and Eliot is heady and drunk but sure as he presses his heavy cock to Quentin’s parted lips. 

With the monster he closes his eyes, he imagines Eliot arching his back as Quentin licks a thick warm line from his balls to his ass. Everything is the same – the smell, the skin, the soft give when he presses past the first ring of muscle. Everything is the same – the steady groan, that feeling, so tight and slick and hot around his cock, even the moans that he draws from the monster’s lips. He is rougher though, his nails breaking skin as he thrusts – shoving forward, to the hilt – only after his own pleasure. The real Eliot would have gripped his thigh, warned him to steady himself – to calm down. The monster takes it, presses back against every thrust – moans “Q, fuck, Q, yes…” as he increases the pace, fucking in raw and deep. And when he comes, when he pounds in, balls drawing up tight and pressed against the softer flesh of Quentin’s ass, the monster begs for more, more, more.

One singular night after they are back, after Eliot says no and Quentin’s world becomes smaller, drawn in tight around his heart, he drinks to become drunk and pushes into Eliot’s bed chambers where he is sitting on the edge of his cot – heavy with the worries of the day. “Remember when we went out to the river that one day…” he starts – describing the memory that has been haunting him for days to Eliot’s surprised, but calm gaze “…and you pushed me back on the river bed, and you were so hungry, gripping your cock…” And Eliot tries to shush him, coming around the bed to where he teeters, uneven with wine “…and you just fucked me, right there, my legs over your shoulders and your just took me…” And it’s Eliot shoulder strong and soft against his cheek, tears spilling freely, drunkenly. And because it is Eliot, and because it is him, he doesn’t need to explain himself, or wake up in a shameful pit. Because it is Eliot, he breathes through the pain, through the dream, to the mundane morning on the other side.

That first time, Eliot is fervent and unabashed. Eliot comes down his throat and then, after Margot rides him to a peak for the second time, pulls Quentin into a kiss that burns right through him. “Come inside me” He whispers in a rasp and Margot moans at the sight of them, at Quentin crawling, dick heavy, behind Eliot’s bent over form. He has never fucked a guy before, but he has wanted to. He says it, he realizes, with a pang of embarrassment but it soon fades as Margot licks into his open mouth and Eliot, with a strong hand, pulls him close – his cock slowly, slicking inside. 

Just because it works between them doesn’t mean that it’s not shitty sometimes.  
In the cottage, after a strained exchange of him coming clean about his feelings about Arielle, Eliot is uncharacteristically quiet – not morose, but there is a sadness there – something that Quentin will only place much later. “I wish it had been different, back then”.  
Quentin doesn’t know what Eliot means yet – but the realization will dawn and he will remember those words, from time to time, when he feels particularly masochistic. 

When the monster leaves there is the debris to deal with and the absence of constant guiding terror leaves a fallout that is just as terrifying, At first it works, because it does work – even if there are parts that doesn’t work in between.  
But then it doesn’t work for a long time.   
They had a proof of concept in a place where the only tests to their relationship would be a magical mosaic, one third party and raising a child together. Their controlled circumstances in Fillory seems childlike against the strains of world filled with alcohol, drugs, hedges and other men (and women). The fight where they break up is straight out of a nightmare and in that crushing moment where it feels to Quentin that all of the beasts that they have killed, dragons that they have fed, questionable shit that they have done for each other – amounts to nothing – to two men furious and hurling insults like battle magic. So his heart snaps shut – done, and he walks out with nothing but the clothes on his back, his laptop and his jacket.   
It doesn’t work for a year.  
Until it does again – as if some clock somewhere forgot itself, blipped back and Eliot waits outside of Julia’s studio apartment – head in his hands, as shaken as he was all those years ago in Fillory. “You’re coming back to me. You don’t have a fucking choice, Q”

The next morning, waking up in Eliot’s royal chamber, after having broken his heart open like a grapefruit the night before – Eliot’s eyes are open and he smiles to him – gentle, always gentle until he’s not. “Get your shit together, Coldwater.” He jokes and not-jokes – running a finger down Quentin’s chin.  
As if it’s even possible around him.


End file.
